


Take The 'A' Train

by Liadt



Category: Bulman
Genre: Gen, thinking and not, train sets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy likes watching the model train go round its track.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take The 'A' Train

Wrapped up in her dressing gown, Lucy McGinty lay on the landing, of the docklands flat, with her chin propped up on a forearm. Down below, in the main living area, George was absorbed in mending a clock. In front of Lucy was an electric train set, where a miniature model of a British Rail InterCity completed its nth circuit of its oval track. The set was George’s, presumably bought because he never had one as a boy, but Lucy used it more than him.

Lucy enjoyed watching the train; its movement was hypnotic and gave her time to not think. After her abduction ordeal she wasn’t ready to try and process what had happened to her and pushed those memories away. For her, the train set worked better than any kind of meditation. Shrinks would say the trains represented childhood and the desire to retreat to the safety of the nursery, but she thought experts didn’t know a pinch of what they claimed. Dugdale had brought her flowers. For what? To apologise? To get well soon? George filed them where they belonged - in the bin. It was an insult, as if expensive blooms wrapped in cellophane could make things better. If George hadn’t put the effort into rescuing her, she’d have been killed for real. George interrupted her trance with regular mugs of tea and food. He wasn’t one to discuss feelings and instead picked her brains about mediaeval literature. He claimed it was for an OU paper. Whether that was true or not, literature was a safe topic and a distraction for the both of them. 

When she and George’s lives weren’t in peril, Lucy still needed an escape from the continuous whirr of her mind. There was a lot to think about, there was the untangling of the threads of STG’s latest case; the bills, always the bills, George only responded if the bills were coloured red. His reaction was to take a job to mend a fascinating, to him, timepiece at less than the going rate, instead of taking on an admittedly boring sounding, but profitable, case. The horology paid the bill, just, along with a few extra one-to-one dance lessons to make up the difference. They should be concentrating on finding ways to expand STG; it was what brought the real money in. It would be nice to achieve some stability in their finances. 

Outside of detection, she had her dance classes to plan and when she had a gig to prepare for, she had to find time to squeeze in rehearsals, as well as choosing what to sing. If she didn’t fancy eating chips for the fourth time in a row, she had to make the decision to go out and bring in whatever wasn’t bacon. George was happy to cook if there was food in the cupboards, although he needed steering away from using the frying pan. Plants required someone to remember they needed watering, she didn’t believe dead trees used to be all the rage in interior design, whatever George claimed. 

After using her green fingers, there was housework, not so much the actual housework, as there wasn’t much to do, it was the mental task of negotiating over what could be cleaned and tidied, other than long case clocks and pots. Tidying behind George’s back led to sulking and accusations of ruining the character of the place. Ruining the character of the place be damned, she knew it was because he didn’t want his precious things moving, but it didn’t mean a light dusting would harm them would it? Building up a logical argument against irrationality, backed up with a mop handle, was the key to getting anything cleaned outside the kitchen and bathroom. Lucy wasn’t a clean freak, but she didn’t intend to take the blame for breeding an apocalyptic virus. She wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up wearing gloves semi-permanently herself one day.

Was it any wonder George solved enquiries quicker than her, when her mind was clogged up? She’d spend all day following a suspect only to find George had cracked the case hours ago and brought her back a kebab to celebrate. Lucy frowned, she was being unfair, he was the last true detective there was. She didn’t have his decades of experience and a kebab was always welcome. She would catch up soon she was sure. Maybe be she needed a new train, did they have models of bullet trains? Perhaps a miniature Trans-Europe Express would take her thought processes speeding down the tracks to intellectual nirvana.

“George!” she called down, from the landing.

“Yes, Tom McGinty’s daughter,” George replied, without looking up from his work.

“Do you find looking at the trains going round the set relaxing?”

“Relaxing? I prefer watching the cogs go in the back of a clock. There's a special kind of satisfactory calm that settles on me when it's a mechanism I've brought back to life. Clocks aren't meant to be still. They should do what they're made to do. I do like watching the trains go round and they're fun; it's a sad person who isn't cheered by a working set, but the wheels move too fast to be relaxing, I'd say. ”

“I must prefer a faster pace of life.”

“Must do. I’m trying to gear down and empty my mind to achieve a Zen-like state, be in the now of, erm, repairing this clock. You should try it, Lucy. Don‘t knock the wisdom of the ancients.”

Lucy took her chin off her arm, picked the train up and rolled over on to her back, in defeat, whilst turning the train in her palm, so she could flick the wheels with her thumbnail. Oh for the days when she had nothing more to think about than writing a clever conclusion to an essay, finding ways to stay awake during Desiccated Drayban's lectures and figuring out who had nicked her milk from the communal fridge. No wonder she had decided on a whim to leave Uni - squeezing a boil on George’s neck was more stimulating.


End file.
